. . .
Kit is riflingthrough my closet, muttering and griping. He grabs a black dress and holds it up to himself in front of the full-length mirror hung on the back of the door before chucking it onto my bed like he has done with the past five dresses he pulled out. “Fuck, Lacy. You’re hot. Why don’t you dress like it?”
I scoff. “Uh, thanks? Ilikethat dress. It looks good on me.”
“Of course, it does, but you have nothing that hits mid-thigh-level. Why don’t you have anything that hits mid-thigh-level? Have you seen your legs?”
I scoff again. “Haveyouseen my legs? I’m wearing pants, Kit. Do not tell me you’ve taken a peek at me naked.”
He rolls his eyes in the mirror, but that’s not a no. Asshole.
I amnotgoing to tell him that I do have skirts that hit mid-thigh level, one in particular I am praying he does not find. It’s black leather, and I exclusively wear it with tights and big sweaters. It’s hiding on the floor of the closet under everythingelse I have that does not fit on a hanger or in my dresser drawers.
I cross my arms and lean back in my chair. “You want to tell me where you think we’re going? Maybe I can help you better.”
“From your wardrobe, I’d say not.” He pulls out another black midi-length dress of mine and doesn’t even bother holding it up to himself in the mirror before pitching it on the bed. “Maybe I should do pants.”
He swivels to my dresser and pulls out a pair of straight-legged black jeans, throwing them over his shoulder. Back in my closet, he starts swiping through my shirts until he pulls out the top I had my fingers crossed he would not find. It’s a red silk tank with lace lining the low-cut, fitted bust. Meggie purchased it for me a while ago, but I’ve never worn it.
He beams in the mirror. “Oh, nowthisis hot.”
Kit goes to remove the T-shirt I had put on yesterday evening before heading to the haunted house.
“Hey!” I shout, slamming my hand on the window. His hands pause at the hem of my shirt. “Stop undressing me!”
His shoulders sag in the mirror. “How am I supposed to change clothes or shower if you won’t let me undress you?”
I hitch my jaw. “I don’t know. Maybe you can un-possess me?”
“Not an option, babe.”
“Itold younot to call me babe.”
“Babe, think of it this way. If we go out and happen to see someone you know, how would you feel if you looked andsmelledlike you haven’t showered or changed in a week?”
My lips press together. I would not like that. “Fine. You’re not allowed to look at me, though. You shower and change with the lights off. Capiche?”
He grins. “Capiche.”
He saunters over to the switch on my wall and flips it off. He removes my T-shirt and jeans and pulls on the black jeans and red tank. He flips back on the light before striding over to the mirror to consider himself.
“You look good,” he mutters. “But the top would look better without a bra.”
“I disagree.”
“Your tits are little. It’s not like they need the support.”
I huff, offended. “They are not ‘little.’ I’m a B cup.”
“Hey, I didn’t say they weren’t great tits.” He reaches behind himself and removes the bra, yanking it out from beneath the shirt. He turns side to side to contemplate himself in the mirror some more. “See, they’re perfectly perky.” He scrutinizes the bra still in his hand. Nude with a little lace around the band. I like it. It’s comfortable. “We have got to get you some new bras.”
“I would appreciate it if you would not treat me like a doll you can dress up and down as you please,” I spit.
His eyes lift to the sky. “That’s not what I’m doing, but fine. If you don’t want a new bra, I’m not going to force it on you.” He tosses the bra to the bed.
He squats down and digs my black strappy heels out of a bin I keep on the floor of the closet before taking a seat on my clothes-covered bed to put them on. After another glance in the mirror, he decides he looks good and then heads to the bathroom to put on makeup and do his hair.
I refrain from commenting on how illogical it is that he is putting on his makeup and doing his hairaftergetting dressed and putting on heels. I’m irritated, but I have to admit that once he’s done with my face, I do look better with the foundation he picked out. And the mascara is nicer, even if only slightly, than my cheap mascara. What I don’t love is the dark lines of eyeliner he has swiped over my eyelids. It’s not that it looks bad, but it doesn’t look like me. Though this is not me.
